


Near Misses

by thelilnan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, Cold War, First Kiss, Fluff, French Revolution, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Time Skips, Trapped In A Closet, Undercover, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilnan/pseuds/thelilnan
Summary: Crowley felt overwhelmed by the distance between their lips, or rather, the lack thereof. It was like static electricity was arcing off the angel, magnetizing the demon ever closer, bidding him to lean in, just a fraction more—Then the moment died and the two had to separate. The crowd was beginning to move. Tempers were boiling over. They had to go.There was a revolution to ignite.-Five times Aziraphale and Crowley almost kissed + one time they did.





	Near Misses

The first time it happened, it was an accident. In fact, neither celestial being thought much of it, save for the lingering buzz of contact on their lips. It was Rome, and it was the Pax Romana, so it was customary to greet one’s familiars with a kiss on the cheek. Aziraphale and Crowley both knew this well and, upon seeing each other at the same pleine air bacchanalia, each made the move. It was a bit awkwardly uncoordinated; they didn’t have many friends on Earth (or in either ethereal realm), so they hadn’t had many occasions to perform the greeting.

Crowley had been straightforward in his approach. He placed one large and rather warm hand on Aziraphale’s neck, guiding himself in. Aziraphale, at that same moment, had leaned in with his hand braced on the demon’s upper arm, palm barely skirting the hem of Crowley’s sleeve. Perhaps it was for that reason—the distraction of so much skin-to-skin contact, which Aziraphale had never really felt before—that his aim slipped ever so slightly. Or maybe it was Crowley who had faltered, similarly unused to the touch. Either way, they missed their marks an inch or less and their fraternal kiss ended up brushing the corners of each other’s lips. It was slight and subtle, barely enough to notice—unless you were so unfamiliar with physical contact that this briefest of touches burned white, hot, and exciting.

They broke quickly, as the greeting dictated, and carried on with their usual banter. Aziraphale pretended not to notice the way his lips tingled, the bare whisper of Crowley’s against them still singing out on his skin.

_It’s fine,_ Aziraphale assured himself, drinking wine and laughing with Crowley as he recounted some tale from across the empire; something to do with several horses and a goat. _It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter._

_So why do I still feel it?_

-

Some odd centuries later, the two found themselves in the middle of a French revolution. No, not the Reign of Terror. Just another revolution. It seemed to be a cycle with the formerly Gaullic people: the poor were getting poorer, the rich were getting fatter, and the people of France had not quickly forgotten how to build guillotines.

Crowley was stood in the Parisian quarter, dressed yet again like another commoner; no flashy filigree or lace embroidered into his collar, as much as he might’ve liked it. He prided himself in being able to read a room and right now, the room was out for aristocratic blood. People were getting restless, keen to rebel, ready to fight and die for their basic decency. Crowley listened somewhat distantly, taking in the intoxicating anarchy like a fine wine. With his eyes down-cast, he didn’t immediately notice the drabbly-dressed man taking his place at his side, as if he were meant to be there.

“Enjoying yourself?” came the familiar, if doting voice by his ear. He didn’t need to look.

“Hardly,” Crowley muttered under another chorus of cheers, “I didn’t do this.”

“Again? I’m starting to wonder what you even do up here.”

_Cheeky._

Crowley was about to retort when the crowd roused again and jostled him off his feet, straight into Aziraphale. Regaining their balance was awkward, unsteady, and unaided by the growing mob. Once Crowley found his footing, he was fit to bite the head off whatever jackass knocked him over. But instead, he stopped, realizing how close he was to Aziraphale. The angel’s hands were gripping his shoulders tightly—an instinctive response from the demon toppling into him. Crowley could practically _feel_ the holiness radiating from the smaller being, so wrapped up in his embrace as he was. Aziraphale, beneath him, was staring at him somewhat moon-eyed, like Crowley had tempted _him_ with the Apple. Their noses almost brushed.

Crowley felt overwhelmed by the distance between their lips, or rather, the lack thereof. It was like static electricity was arcing off the angel, magnetizing the demon ever closer, bidding him to lean in, just a fraction more—

Then the moment died and the two had to separate. The crowd was beginning to move. Tempers were boiling over. They had to go.

There was a revolution to ignite.

-

Lots of stuff had happened between then and now. The Industrial Revolution, for a start. World War I and, more importantly, World War II. The world had changed. Humanity had changed.

Aziraphale had changed.

So much of his existence was based on the notion that he would always do the right thing. Crowley, and Hell at large, would always do the wrong thing. On the world spun. However, he’d been thinking lately. A _lot._ Almost entirely about Crowley and the church and his books. His _books._ They’d almost been destroyed, lost for all time, his precious first editions, but Crowley...

Crowley.

It drove him slightly mad, like a song you couldn’t get out of your head. _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley._ A demon, no less. He shouldn’t vex him so, or at least not unless he was tempting—

No. He would never.

_… Would he?_

It didn’t matter now, because it was 1954 and they were playing spies for America and Russia. Of course, they didn’t know it at first. Mr. Fell was to meet Mr. Crow at a preordained safe zone, though any negotiations or assassinations were understandably forgotten when they realized it was each other.

Their sides didn’t like that.

Cut to the two of them zipping down the halls of the National Gallery as their fellow agents, previously meant to keep them safe, were now hell-bent (pardon the pun) on executing the supposed traitors. Crowley led them, tugging Aziraphale behind him by the wrist as they wove in and out of tourists gazing upon the old Masters. Their pursuers were not far behind. They’d be caught and easily discorporated soon enough if they didn’t think of something quickly.

It seemed that Crowley had done just that as Aziraphale thought it, because he very suddenly yanked the angel down a corridor, then another, and then _another_ , until they were able to duck into an unassuming custodial closet.

_Click._

There they were, pressed chest-to-chest in the dark, cramped, and exceedingly stuffy closet. Aziraphale had what he presumed to be a mop or broom handle jabbing him in the back and judging by the way Crowley kept shifting, his foot seemed to be stuck in something.

“Sh!” Aziraphale hissed, waving his hand ineffectively to silence the demon. Or at least, he’d assumed it would be ineffective but in fact, his fingertips landed squarely across Crowley’s lips, effectively shutting the demon up from snapping back.

He was a lot closer than Aziraphale anticipated. The angel’s hand had barely made it a half inch before his fingers brushed across Crowley’s skin. His warm, almost _too_ warm, and very soft skin; soft despite the barest hint of stubble, warm with his breath and his blood, pumping so much quicker now, but also the fury of Hell beneath the surface. It was unbearably magnetic, tempting Aziraphale ever closer, even though the two of them were already as close as they could possibly be. Something deep inside his chest was aching, loud and lorn, to press closer, to close that distance between them, to feel Crowley’s heat against his lips, to fall—

“Sounds like they’ve gone,” Crowley exhaled shortly, completely derailing Aziraphale’s thoughts. The angel blinked, snapping his hand away from Crowley’s chin like he should have done long ago. Crowley said nothing of it; only opened the closet door and helped his comrade out.

They made their escape through the back exit of the museum and never spoke to their commanding officers again.

-

Who would’ve expected the comely young nanny and the homely gardener would’ve been the gossip of Dowling grounds?

Not Crowley, for one. He prided himself in his disguise, for the very reason that it was so simple. So elegant. The natural slender build of his Earthly body leant so easily to the feminine lines of his matronly dress, he didn’t need to do much more than change the pitch of his voice. Aziraphale, on the other hand, seemed determined to make himself as obnoxious as possible, what with those fake teeth and that sun-worn skin. It was so jarring, every time their paths crossed, that he would see the angel become so absolutely vile; so sexless as the wisened gardener was intended to be. Crowley absolutely loathed it and for that reason, gave the angel an unusually wide berth around the house.

It could be so infuriating sometimes—Aziraphale’s foolishness. Why in the Almighty’s creation someone blessed with a face like that would willingly maim it for the sake of such a ridiculous disguise; it was beyond him. More than that, it put an indignant curl in Crowley’s lips. Everything inside him wanted to rip those teeth out and smudge that makeup away, just to get to the beautiful face he knew was underath. Really, Aziraphale should have consulted him before committing to this look. It was so selfish of him; Crowley was the one that had to look at him all day, shouldn’t he at least spare him the kindness of letting him actually see his face?

Pondering all of this over afternoon tea with the Dowling and watching the gardening staff work in the late spring sun, Crowley bristled.

_How dare he._

Apparently animosity breeds gossip. The staff would talk about the lingering glances between the tight-lipped but alluring nanny and the friendly, if positively asexual gardener. There must be something there, right? The way they dance around each other, always in orbit, eyes darting, tension palpable. Little did they know it was because of their Arrangement rather than any mortal social implications. Foolish people; so small-minded. Sometimes, some of the more precocious housekeepers would approach him and ask if there was anything going on, eyes wide and somewhat fearful. After all, she could do so much better than him. What did she see in him? How was he in—

Crowley dismissed these things with a withering look and pressed on. He didn’t have time for mortal gossip. He had an Antichrist to groom.

“Ah, if it ain’t the nanny of the house,” the west country accent scratched like nails in the back of Crowley’s brain. Aziraphale had tracked him down to the patio balcony that overlooked the backyard. Warlock and a few of his friends were hitting each other with sticks, “How’re’yea on this lovely day, miss?”

“Stop,” Crowley hissed, teeth gritted, “I hate that ridiculous voice.”

“Apologies, ma’am,” Aziraphale grinned stupidly, which was the only way he _could_ grin around those teeth, “Product of mae upbringin’. Though you seem much more a city girl—”

“I am _warning_ you.”

Aziraphale snickered, terribly pleased with himself. Crowley tightened his grip on the railing of the porch. Below them, Warlock nearly took another boy’s head off.

“Alright, I’ll pop off,” Aziraphale announced with a pat to Crowley’s fisted hands. He leaned in then to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, just to add the final cherry on top of the entire charade. Crowley, however, upon feeling Aziraphale’s hands over his own, whipped his head around to tell the angel off for daring to touch him while he was this clearly keyed up. It was because of this that the gardener didn’t end up kissing the nanny’s cheek but rather, his mouth.

Sort of.

(The teeth got in the way.)

The two froze for a split second, eyes wide with shock and horror as soon as contact was made and their noses brushed. It was ultimately Crowley who broke away first, jumping back as if Aziraphale was suddenly covered in Holy Water. Aziraphale stammered uselessly, west country accent completely dissipated, trying to find the words for _oh Heavens I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to do that—_

Crowley was gone, face strawberry red, before Aziraphale could say anything.

Inside the house, the staff gossip mill gained new life.

-

They’d lost the Antichrist.

As if it wasn’t stressful enough that the world was ending, they now had no footing on how to stop it. Finding humans, especially very young ones, was extremely difficult and beyond checking with the former convent in Tadfield, they had no leads, no ideas, no nothing.

Dismayed, the two retired to a nearby pub to drown their sorrows in booze. Aziraphale defaulted to red wine while Crowley ordered something stronger—something with some cheeky little name that made the demon smirk and Aziraphale flush and avert his gaze. They shared a plate of chips, though Crowley knew this would prompt Aziraphale to make the customary salt-based jokes. He’d done this ever since table salt became a dining standard and while Crowley had initially found it humorous, he was now extremely tired of the joke. It didn’t even make sense. It was just some nonsense human superstition that had gotten out of hand.

“You sure you want to do that?” Aziraphale fought, and lost, a battle with a grin as Crowley took another chip from the plate, “Don’t want you to start foaming at the mouth.”

“I’ll survive,” Crowley replied flatly and petulantly ate two more.

They drank, ate, and talked for a few hours more, trying very hard not to think about how fucked they—and humanity at large—truly were. It was because of this avoidance that they found themselves ordering far more alcohol than normal and staying at the pub later than was strictly considered polite. But to be fair, the world was ending; what was one more late night?

Eventually, the owner had to ask them to leave. Aziraphale mumbled some slurred apology for the inconvenience while Crowley miracled up enough cash to cover their extensive tab and then some. That seemed to placate the elderly man, who offered to call them a cab to get them home.

“Walk it off,” Crowley grabbed a hold of the angel beside him who almost stumbled into the doorframe, “S’nice night out, innit…”

The owner agreed, bid them a safe night, and locked the door at their backs. They set out on the rustic, cobblestone road, arms intertwined and Aziraphale leaning heavily into Crowley’s side. He could feel the soft wisps of his hair tickling his cheek and pretended not to notice the warm, comforting smell of his shampoo.

“I don’ want it to end,” Aziraphale intoned softly, squeezing Crowley’s arm. The demon said nothing, having to use the majority of his concentration on navigating the two safely down the sidewalk, “Th’world I mean… Us.”

Crowley’s pace faltered slightly, nearly sending the two off-kilter. He regained his stride and they walked on while he prepared his response, “Oh angel,” he attempted to sound cool, calm, and like the world wasn’t about to end, “We’ll be alright. Is’th’world tha’s fucked…”

Aziraphale shook his head sadly and continued walking with Crowley, nearly hanging off his arm. There was a heavy silence between them, pitched now and then by crickets singing in the passing gardens. Moths congregated by street lamps. Frogs bellowed softly in the midsummer night.

Soon it would all be gone.

“We’re on opposite sides,” Aziraphale finally said when the two slowed their pace, standing at an intersection near where Crowley had parked the Bentley. Aziraphale kept his head on the demon’s shoulder, face turned in. He let, just for a moment, Crowley’s scent overwhelm him, hoping the familiarity would quell the rising panic in his chest. Crowley smelled like leather, whiskey, and smoke; like toasted wood chips in a dying campfire. He smelled like his car; antique, pristine, inviting. He smelled like old cologne they don’t even make anymore; like lush houseplants, exotic chocolates, and rain.

He smelled like Crowley, and that was more than enough.

Then his arms came around him, holding the angel close enough to feel his heart beat. It was hammering nearly as fast as his own. They both knew, no matter what, this was not going to end well.

“I don’wan’t’fight you,” he slurred quietly, face hidden in Crowley’s neck.

He wasn’t talking about the Apocalypse.

Aziraphale felt Crowley nudge his nose to his cheek, coaxing his face away from his throat where it had been pressed. The angel blinked blearily, alcohol still running amok in his brain, as he struggled to make out Crowley’s expression behind his dark glasses. As he searched for a clue as to what to do next, he felt the demon’s hand shakily cup his cheek. It was then he knew that the unreadable expression on his companion’s face was one of fear.

He looked like the world was going to end if Aziraphale didn’t kiss him.

Aziraphel tilted his chin up just enough, eyes sliding closed again as their noses brushed, anxiety and anticipation washing over him in hot waves. Their lips barely brushed before the two were literally caught in the headlights of a car coming to a sudden stop at the intersection. The two jolted back from each other, a fearful sweat suddenly appearing on the back of their necks.

“I’m so sorry lads,” called the voice from the car. A tourist, “I can’t seem to find Sparrowfield Lane. D’you know where it might be?”

Crowley made something up and sent them away.

Aziraphale was already walking to the car.

The two quickly sobered themselves back up, much to the shock and horror of the pub owner some miles away.

They had to go.

-

They did it.

Well, Adam did it. And his friends.

But they were there.

And most importantly, they’d managed to save themselves in the process and gotten the upper management of both Heaven and Hell to lay off them for a while, if not permanently.

It was fine. Everything was finally okay.

But where did that leave _them?_

Crowley had been thinking this over for a long time; since he’d first seen Aziraphale in the Garden fretting over the first two humans, sunlight falling over his wings in a heavenly shroud. It made sense then, how Crowley had felt enraptured by the creature. He’d never seen an angel on Earth before and had forgotten the innate splendor of the upper beings. Demons were always so filthy, literally rotting from the inside out, covered in every vile, slimy, and repulsive thing imaginable. So upon seeing Aziraphale, who seemed to _radiate_ holiness and love, surrounded in golden sunshine, Crowley counted it as a novelty, nothing more.

Then he spoke to him.

And that was that.

It was almost like destiny, maybe something more, that Crowley found himself drawn to the angel. There was no one on Earth like them, no one who really understood the other or all they had done and seen. From comradery grew affection, and now, dare he give it a name… love.

Yes, it had to be love.

Heaven would’ve hated that. Hell would’ve boiled him alive. So he stuffed it away and enjoyed his moments with the angel; their talks, their dinners, their late nights drinking far, far too much, their near-misses with something much, much more. They had to play the long game. They couldn’t go too fast, not with those above and below eager to catch defactors.

But that didn’t matter anymore. It was just them, as it always should have been.

“Come in for a nightcap?” Aziraphale offered as they arrived at his bookshop. They’d elected to walk home from the Ritz, to enjoy the early evening. Crowley nodded, following his angel dutifully into the shop—but oh, how much farther he would go if he asked.

Aziraphale had just prepared them each a glass of wine, turning to hand one off to his guest when he realized Crowley was still standing behind him. He startled with a laugh, holding up the glasses.

“Didn’t hear you—”

“It’s fine,” Crowley dismissed softly, taking both glasses from Aziraphale and setting them on a nearby tabletop. The angel looked puzzled, eyes flicking curiously from the wine to the demon in front of him, who he now realized wasn’t wearing his signature spectacles. Because of this, Aziraphale was able to see the uncharacteristically sincere expression, as if he was trying to say so much more with his gaze alone.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale ventured, his voice coming much softer than he meant. Again, Crowley hushed him gently and moved a fraction closer, hands coming up to cup the angel’s cheeks. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, simultaneously fearful and hopeful, and waited for the demon to move.

Crowley swallowed, overwhelmed by the nearness of the other being. He touched his forehead to the angel’s, hoping this would somehow communicate an entire existence of wanting. He had wanted the angel for so, so long, it was almost too much to bear now that he had him. Everything he had ever felt about the angel, the longing, the admiration, the affection, the _wanting_ , was bubbling to the surface and choking him like raging ocean waves. He was shaking. The moments of silence between them seemed to stretch on forever.

Then Aziraphale placed cautious hands on the demon’s chest, nervous fingers curling tight into his jacket lapels. He was trembling, just barely enough that Crowley could feel it, as he leaned into the demon. Their noses brushed. Aziraphale, taking a sharp breath to steady himself, finally spoke, “Crowley…?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley answered softly, canting his forehead against the other being’s, “My angel…”

It was unclear who initiated it then; perhaps neither of them. Perhaps it wasn’t even something to start, just a surrender to the magnetism that had always existed between them, from the beginning of the world itself.

No matter how it started, Aziraphale and Crowley kissed.

The first one was brief; just enough to finally relieve the tension that they had never acknowledged in the thousands of years of knowing—and wanting—each other. They parted just enough to breathe, noses brushing like they had so many times before. Aziraphale was still trembling, Crowley’s fingers still buried in his hair.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, as easily as breathing.

“Angel,” Crowley responded, surging in for another kiss.

This one was much different than the first. This one was deep, passionate, and overwhelming the both of them like a tidal wave, dragging them deep under the surface. Aziraphale found himself whimpering as he parted his lips under Crowley’s, the demon’s forked tongue swiping sinfully against his own.

Suddenly, they couldn’t figure out what to do with their hands. Crowley attempted to move his to Aziraphale’s back, to pull him closer and keep him right where he wanted. At the same time, Aziraphale attempted to move his to Crowley’s hair, to hold on tight as he let the demon have his wicked, wily way. Their hands bumped, their kiss faltered, and Aziraphale barked out an awkward laugh. Then so did Crowley. Before they could stop themselves, they collapsed into giggles, right there in the back corner of A.Z. Fell & Co. in the non-post-apocalyptic world.

As their laughter died, Aziraphale found the chance to finally thread his fingers in Crowley’s hair and stear his gaze back to his own. Crowley was grinning crookedly; almost, one might say, love stuck.

“I love you,” Aziraphale repeated carefully, searching Crowley’s face.

“I love you too,” Crowley repeated easily, “I always have,” he emphasized this with a kiss, “I always will.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley then, once again radiating all the love and holiness that had first caught Crowley’s eye all those years ago. This time, however, he knew it was all his.

 

End.


End file.
